Necessary Precautions
by actuallyitsstarbar
Summary: The wide blue eyes that darted between him and the mess of yellowed paper and glossy tape, were the same eyes that had been wide and desperate when a kid in a weird life jacket had shown up on his steps in 55, claiming to be from the future. That future boy was finally here! / Doc & Marty friendshippy scene filling, oneshot. Reviews appreciated immensely! . Rated T just in case.


**A/N: I didn't expect to churn out another BTTF fic so quickly but I just had to write this haha. I write for your enjoyment as well as mine, so if you enjoyed, please do leave a review to let me know! Y'all inspire me to keep on writing!**

 **Hope you like it!**

August 14th, 1970, 8:25 AM

Doc Brown shoved through his ever growing accumulations of _stuff_ in search of the part he needed. Just one more bolt was needed to affix the Timestream Continuor to the Time Circuit's motherboard. Of course, it wasn't the actual motherboard- merely a prototype, but it was a damn good one, he thought.

He pushed through some jars on his over-piled work bench, muttering something rather unfavorable under his breath as several jars of nuts and bolts when tumbling willy-nilly off the surface. Kneeling to retrieve them, He found himself looking at… what was that?

Moving a stack of rags he'd never gotten around to washing, he found... _singed_ rags?

Of course! That demonstration, the one he'd given to Marty in '55. Apparently he'd also never gotten around to throwing those out. He hadn't gotten around to much since he'd sent that kid back to the future, except for working on his Flux Capacitor. It was so nice to know that he'd do something, that he'd be something, that he had a potential. That he had a friend.

Wait a minute… what the heck was that?

He pulled on a grayish brown piece of fabric. He didn't have the leverage to free it from Heaven-only-knew what was on top of it, and he had to stand up to get it loose. It came free with a cloth shredding jerk, scattering the spilled nuts and bolts near and far, and he stumbled back against his work table, left holding this… this thing.

His coat! His old coat! How could he have forgotten? He pushed his goggles up onto his head and turned it over in his hands. He hadn't worn that thing since, well, since his friend had gone back to 1985.

With a step away from the workbench, a scrap of paper fluttered into his view. Turning quickly, there was another. And another… Great Scott! Marty's letter!

Pushing his hand into the pocket of the coat, he watched as his hand emerged from the bottom, pushing the few remaining bits of the letter along with it. So that was what had ripped when he broke the thing loose! They fluttered into a haphazard pile on the ground in front of him, tempting him to see what exactly they were all about.

But no, he couldn't! That was why he'd torn it up in the first place! Fifteen extra years of research into time travel had left him more certain than ever that a man most definitely should not know too much about his own future. It was simply too dangerous. Gathering the pieces from the floor, he glanced about for a proper place to dispose of them. He decided upon one of the empty jars he'd rather unceremoniously dumped earlier, and having placed them on their new home, onto the shelf they went, and on with his work he went.

October 28th, 1970, 3:46 PM

They stayed there for an awfully long time, and one might imagine that was because Doc had forgotten about them, but no, it was quite to the contrary. Every day, as he worked on his experiments, he felt as if they were watching him. At any rate he knew he was watching them, staring at them a little more than he would have cared to admit.

They were dangerous! They shouldn't have been written! He didn't want to know!

"If you don't wish to know, Emmett, why haven't you thrown them out yet?" he muttered to himself, a few weeks after they'd been placed in their new spot.

November 19th, 1970, 12:53 AM

And then, somehow, they ended up on the stand next to his cot. He couldn't say how… not because he didn't know but because he was rather embarrassed by it. He, Doctor Emmett Brown, was so tempted to risk the shredding of the fabric of the universe just for a letter written by some seventeen year old kid.

He sunk onto his bed, staring at the jar, but more so staring through it than seeing it. Damn, he missed that seventeen year old kid.

And he had a letter from that kid, which he'd seemed to find pretty important at the time.

His eyes traveled to the framed photo of Thomas Edison hanging on the wall. "Well, Tom," he muttered, "What can be the harm?"

The next thing he knew, he had pulled out some archival grade tape and cleared (more like forced) a clean spot on his work table. Dumping the pieces onto the surface, he carefully matched the shreds together. It took an hour and a lot of double and triple checking, but finally, he had laid out the general shape of the letter.

Just a few more sections he had to adjust and then-

It took him an unacceptable amount of time to find some normal scissors to cut the tape with, but he did eventually prevail. He really had to get things organized, he thought to himself. Of course, that would never happen, but it was a nice thought.

Finally, it was together. The paper was aged and the ink a little smeared in places, but everything seemed legible.

" _Dear Dr. Brown,_

 _On the night that I go back in time, at 1:30 AM you will be shot by terrorists. Please take whatever precautions are necessary to prevent this terrible disaster. Your friend, Marty."_

Great Scott!

That was what happened in the future? He was killed in the future?

He was killed by terrorists?

Why would he ever deal with terrorists?

He remembered rather clearly the hug Marty had rather unexpectedly pulled him into back in 1955. The one right after Doc had told him he'd see him in about 30 years.

When Marty had swallowed hard, blinking, and looked away.

"I hope so," he had said.

Doc's eyes went to the calendar that hung on the opposite wall of his garage. That had been 15 years ago.

Marty McFly was two years old, living in Lyon Estates with his family. In fifteen years, he would be seventeen years old. And he, Doc Brown, would he be dead in those same fifteen years?

He leaned on his table, sighing as he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair, and he wondered how hard it would be to create a fail-proof bullet-proof vest before 1985.

October 26th, 1985, 1:30 AM

They'd found him!

He'd taken every precaution he could think of, but it hadn't been enough, they'd still managed to figure out where he'd be, and here they came!

"Run for it, Marty!" he heard himself shout, dashing off in the opposite direction.

"Who? WHO?"

He heard his young friend's voice from behind him, he paused mid-dash to turn back and exclaim "Who do you think? THE LIBYANS!"

Somewhere that seemed very distant, he heard Marty yell "Holy _shit_!" but he didn't have time to reflect on what he was saying, if he was saying anything else at all. He had to make sure that no one died tonight.

Dodging the bullets that peppered his van by sheer luck alone, he called in a somewhat frantic tone, "I'll draw their fire!"

"Doc, wait!" He saw Marty dive for cover by the front wheel of the DeLorean, and he dashed away to get his gun, ignoring him for the time being.

He pulled the trigger, but no bullet came out- the only bullets around were the ones being aimed at him. He tried to fire it again and again but to no avail; he turned it to see down the barrel, and then raised his wide, frightened eyes to the van of terrorists that sat before him.

This was it.

He tossed his empty and worthless weapon onto the ground as obviously as possible, drawing as much attention to himself has he could. He couldn't let them see Marty, he couldn't let them hurt the boy-

Maybe they wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, he thought desperately.

Of course not. He saw the shift in the man's eyes, right before he was going to pull the trigger. He knew what was going to happen, or at least what was supposed to happen. What had happened.

This really was it.

At the very least, he'd made one other precaution, and damn, did he ever pray it worked.

The force of the bullets sent him sprawling to the ground, fire shooting all through his chest. Oh no, it hadn't worked, he was dying! Or was he already dead?

"No, bastards!"

He couldn't be dead!

Not if he could hear Marty shout in an anguished voice. Not if he could hear his sneakered footsteps dart around the front of the van, the yammer of the AK47 chasing him there.

Tires squealed, the gun clicked uselessly, the terrorists shouted in a foreign language, the footsteps ran around the other side of the van. No, Marty, no, get out of there!

He wondered- if he didn't die… would Marty? Was someone slated to die tonight?

God, no, that couldn't happen, that would kill him, that would-

He heard the by leap into open door of the DeLorean and the engine of the van sputtering. He opened his eyes, and caught a glimpse from under his van, of Marty looking at him with the most desolate expression he'd ever seen on his face.

 _No, Marty…._ he thought again, _get out of here, damn it!_

The door slammed and the engine roared to life. Another engine roared to life. The two vehicles raced around him in the parking lot, he heard the sound of the fourth dimension being broken, followed by a triple sonic boom, a monstrous crash, and then… silence.

He lay gasping for air on the wet pavement, staring up at the night sky and trying not to think about the fire in his chest. If he wasn't dead, and the evidence did seem to point to the contrary on that count, he was most definitely injured. Probably some broken ribs, he thought absently. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to think about moving, he couldn't imagine even accomplishing such a feat.

 _But he was alive,_ he realized with sudden elation.

Footsteps pounded up beside him, "Doc, Doc!" a familiar, but grief stricken, voice gasped.

He didn't react when a figure collapsed beside him, when hands turned him over; he had to be sure it wasn't a trap. What if the Libyans had come back? What if they were planning to-

He heard a choked sob; a whisper "Oh, no…" and then the hands released him.

Taking a fortifying (though painful) breath, he pushed his palms into the parking lot surface, bringing himself to an upright position.

He saw Marty sitting in a puddle, facing away from him; he was hunched over the pavement, shoulders shaking as if….

As if he was crying.

He swallowed, trying to decide how best to approach this, but fate decided it for him as Marty turned slowly towards him. His eyes widened in complete shock, and he scrambled backward a few inches as though some unseen force had shoved him away from the source of his surprise.

"You're alive!" he breathed, staring at him with the purest disbelief Doc had ever seen.

Doc moved his wide eyes from Marty's tearful face down to his own chest, which was peppered with holes. He fumbled with the zipper of his radiation suit, finally just pulling it apart in his hurry.

"Bullet proof vest," Marty whispered.

Doc looked at the splotches on his invention with unblinking eyes. He felt a chill knowing those splotches were bullets, knowing they should, by all rights, be inside of him right now.

But they weren't. He was ok. My some miracle of life, he was still ok.

Marty's hand inched into his field of view, as if he was going to touch the bullets- but then he pulled the hand away. "How did you know? I… I never got a chance to tell you..."

Wordlessly, he reached into his bullet-riddled jumpsuit and pulled out an old piece of paper.

He was glad he'd had the forethought to use acid-free tape to repair Marty's warning, because more than anything, showing the teen the very same letter made the painstaking piece-matching all worthwhile. It would've been a shame to have it rot away.

"What about all that talk about screwing up future events...the space time continuum?" Judging from the high pitched squeal of Marty's voice, he was definitely in shock.

A slight smile- almost a smirk- slipped over his features.

"Well, I figured… what the hell."

Doc had been waiting to say those words for over 15 years, and it felt so good to finally say them.

The look on Marty's face as he held the letter in a shaking hand, the wide blue eyes that darted between him and the mess of yellowed paper and glossy tape, were the same eyes that had been wide and desperate when a kid in a weird life jacket had shown up on his steps in '55. They were the same wide, blue eyes that filled with wonder as their owner walked rather animatedly through his mansion, the same eyes that closed on the couch bed he'd set up for this… this future boy.

This future boy was finally here.

The letter… it was a letter Marty could hold, a letter he wrote 30 years ago, but not more than two hours ago. It was a crazy thought, almost unbelievable, to think that his best friend was now different, but the same. This Marty in front of him, was from a world where his parents met a different way- and the Marty who'd just gone back in time was a direct result of the actions of this Marty. Different…. but the same.

Speaking of this Marty, he looked as though he wanted to scream, or laugh, or cry… hell, he was crying already- and instead of trying to call up the right words to say in this situation, Doc leaned forward to wrap the boy in a hug.

He felt Marty's arms press into his back, he felt him press his face into his shoulder, letting out a slow, shuddering breath. "Jesus, Doc, I thought…. I thought you were…"

Doc, in somewhat an awkward move, patted Marty on the back. "There, there," he murmured. "I'm sorry to have led you to that assumption, but I'm quite alright now. A bit bruised of course, but nothing time won't heal." He cringed as he thought of how many times Marty must have seen him 'die'. It was no wonder he seemed on the edge of an emotional outburst, this entire situation was unnatural.

Marty pulled away, scrubbing his jacket sleeve across his eyes. Doc allowed one hand to linger on his shoulder. "Marty," he began, "I'd like to apologize for the way I acted in '55. I was young and foolish and I didn't trust you to make the right choice. I should have. For that, I'm sorry."

Marty shrugged one shoulder, glancing away and back quickly. "Hey, it's uh.. It's fine. It all worked out, right?"

He remembered the sudden hug Marty'd pulled him into in 1955, the one where Marty had swallowed hard and said "I hope so."

 _He didn't think he'd ever see me alive again,_ Doc thought to himself.

To be fair, Doc hadn't been so sure either. Of course he'd had fifteen years to acquire a bullet proof vest, but there were so many variables- how long should he wait? He needed the newest possible tech, but if he waited too long it might be too late. What sort of gun would these terrorists have? The type of vest he'd need depended on this information!

With this in mind, he'd begun work on a side project to his time machine- something that could save his life. It wasn't until he was already in dealings with the Libyans that he realized they were packing AK47s, and virtually nothing could stop that kind of ammo. He made frantic last minute adjustments to his protection gear and he prayed it would be enough.

To his utter joy, it had been _plenty!_

Marty was helping him to his feet, wearing an exhausted smile. He didn't excactly need the help; as a matter of fact he felt that was more for Marty's sake than it was his, so he let him do it.

"Can you walk ok?" Marty asked.

"Of course, of course," Doc returned, taking a few steps to prove his point. "I suppose we should get out of here before someone tries to pin that on us," and he gestured to the fiery mess that used to be the photobooth.

"Yeah….yeah, and we should probably get back to the DeLorean. It's uh, it got a little...stalled… in front of the church."

"I suppose reliability is the price you pay for style," Doc sighed.

"And it sorta has the door open...and I maybe… left the keys in it."

"Great Scott Marty, what were you thinking? Nevermind, let's go get it before something happens to it!" He darted off towards his van, and Marty followed, a bit slower.

"What were you thinking?" he again asked of his young friend, as they drove together out of the mall parking lot.

Marty ran a hand through his already thoroughly mussed up hair. "Geeze, Doc, I mean, I was kind of busy trying to save your life! I thought you were dead, I didn't think I'd ever see you again, except laying in the parking lot out there with the Libyans, and I guess I just-"

"Marty," Doc interrupted him in a softer tone. "I'm sorry, I truly am. It's alright. Let's just get the DeLorean back into this truck and get out of here."

They arrived to find the car thankfully untouched. Marty drove the car up into the back of the truck, and helped Doc lock down the ramps and latch the door.

"Ah, Marty," Doc began, "I know you're tired. So am I. But I know of a Waffle House less than half an hour from here, and I feel like we have a lot of catching up to do. Not to mention I could go for a few short stacks. What do you say?"

Marty grinned. "You got it, Doc."

By 3:00 AM, they were driving home with full stomachs and a better understanding of how things had changed when Marty came back from the past. Doc turned onto the 2-lane highway that led directly into Hill Valley, glancing over at the passenger's seat. Marty was slumped against the window, sound asleep. Einie rested his head on his shoes, looking up at his owner with tired but loyal expression.

Doc smiled as he brought the car into downtown Hill Valley.

Never before had taking all the necessary precautions been so very rewarding.


End file.
